For the hermit trout Is not such a lout King of the brook, No fisher's hook But here I lie, And laugh as they try; But when the streams, With moonlight beams, Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams, Then, then look out For the hermit trout; For he springs and dimples the shallows about, While the tired angler dreams A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. BY EPES SARGENT. A LIFE on the ocean wave! A home on the rolling deep! Where scattered waters rave, And the winds their revels keep ! Like an eagle caged, I pine On this dull unchanging shore; Oh, give me the flashing brine, The spray, and the tempest's roar. Once more on the deck I stand Of my own swift gliding craft. Set sail ! farewell to the land : The gale follows far abaft. We sport through the sparkling foam Like an ocean hird set free; Like the ocean bird, our home We'll find far out on the sea. The land is no longer in view, The clouds have begun to frown; But with a stout vessel and crew, We'll say let the storm come down. And the song of our hearts shall be, While the winds and waters rave, 3* THE DYING LEGACY. BY J. M. CHURCH. Saw ye the shadow o'er his brow, The pallor o'er his cheek? Saw ye the sadness in his eye, And did ye hear him speak ? Inflamed his aged breast, His poor wife's sole bequest. But late, a daughter, simple child, Sat prattling on his knee, His poor wife's legacy! And watched her childish glee, My poor wife's legacy. "Tis now that old man, weak and wan, Sits comfortless and lone, Sickening to think upon. They strive, they strive to flee, My poor wife's legacy! THE LAST BOUQUET. BY H. T. TUCKERMAN. There's sadness in your bloom to-night, My freshly-gathered flowers, Of happy bygone hours; Each leaflet seems to say- It is the last bouquet. When deeply in your buds ye slept, I culled with heartfelt glee Your gay compeers—the elder-born And twined them merrily, And what they best can say, — Ye are Love's last bouquet. O when each flowery nook is gleaned, And nought remains to wreathe, But shrubs all wild and flowerless, That no sweet odours breathe,Unto perennial fields I'd fly, Through upper gardens stray, To tread again no desert track, Nor cull a last bouquet! THE MINSTREL'S RETURN. BY JOHN H. HEWITT. The minstrel's returned from the war, With spirits as buoyant as air; And thus on his tuneful guitar, He sings in the bower of his fair. The noise of the battle is over, The bugle no more calls to arms; A soldier no more, but a lover, I kneel to the power of thy charms! I bend to the magic of beauty; Yet, love calls the soldier to duty. The minstrel his suit warmly pressed, She blushed, sighed, and hung down her head; Till conquered she fell on his breast, And thus to the happy youth said- My bosom thy pillow shall be ; Still faithful, I'll perish with thee.” I bend to the magic of beauty; Yet, love calls the soldier to duty, |